Eyes and Feet
An eye of brick
crowned anew by ribbons of forest
overlooks winter bleached finery.
Wooden fingers protrude
pinioning a gunmetal sky.
Spring wakened a coot
on his turn
see, there is an eye, behind.
A trunk, but hardly hardwood legs protrude,
belying a modesty of liveliness
not seen, below, if they are feet, legion.
Rubrous veins hatch their ambush
amidst thickets, preventing our gaze
beyond, this cold day.
Elder magic, bring to us
the gift of sacred hearing
the suns’ steady drumming advances.